Read Online The Death of Chaos by L. E. Modesitt Jr. - Free Book Online
Authors: L. E. Modesitt Jr.
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the great imperial port at Swartheld.
“Ser?”
“Let's go,” Dyrsse says. “It wouldn't do to keep the Emperor waiting.”
“No, ser. Lord Chyrsse said he was in a foul mood.”
“And he wants to see me?”
“Yes, ser.”
The two march through the gate, past the four soldiers in dress tans who bear dark-barreled rifles, and through the arched halls of pale marble, their boots clicking on the polished stone. The two military men walk past two servers in white who push carts redolent of spiced meats.
An Austran diplomat in dark woolens wipes his forehead as the two officers pass, and an official from the province of Merowey, in flowing white trousers and a peach-colored vest with gold braid, inclines his shaven head. Two functionaries in orange uniforms carrying brown leather cases nod deeply at the marshal and continue away from the receiving halls.
“Did Chyrsse say why?” the marshal finally asks as they approach the northern anteroom.
“No, ser.”
As they step through the archway hung with tan draperies, fringed in gold, a heavyset man in brilliant blue trousers and a matching blue silk shirt, and wearing a heavy gold chain and medallion around his neck, steps forward.
“Marshal Dyrsse, the Emperor is waiting for you.”
“I came as soon as I received the message, but, even with the new river steamers, it takes some time.”
“The Emperor understands that,” replies Chyrsse.
“The Emperor does not have to understand much, Chyrsse,” responds Dyrsse. “He just has to command.”
“You always understand... I'll tell him you're here.” After wiping his forehead with a large cotton handkerchief and blotting his damp cheeks, Lord Chyrsse hurries through a small doorway in the comer of the room.
The junior officer looks down at the polished octagonal floor tiles. Dyrsse scans the empty military anteroom, then shakes his head. He sets the marshal's cap on the polished stand by the large doorway next to the two silent guards, wearing swords, in the antique orange and black dress uniforms that date back to the founding of the Empire.
Lord Chyrsse reappears. “His Excellency is waiting!” The marshal steps toward the heavy wooden doors warded by the guards, who turn, silently, and open them.
Lord Chyrsse straightens his silks and steps through the double doors before Marshal Dyrsse. “Marshal Dyrsse, responding to His Excellency's commands!”
Dyrsse's lips barely quirk at the high-pitched squeaking announcement, and he steps into the receiving chamber, where he walks to the orange carpet, turns to the throne and bows deeply. He waits.
“You may depart, Lord Chyrsse.” The Emperor's voice is deep, surprisingly deep, coming as it does from a thin figure with short but thick salt - and - pepper hair and a narrow beaked nose. Stesten's eyes are a piercing light green.
Behind the marshal, Lord Chyrsse bows and walks back through the side doors, which close with a dull thud.
There are no guards visible in the hundred-cubit-long chamber, but the dozen embrasures in the overhead gallery, and the four in the wall that forms a semicircle around the throne, testify to their hidden presence.
“You may approach, Marshal Dyrsse.”
The slim bald man in the tan uniform walks forward until he reaches the foot of the five wide steps that lead up to the imperial throne where he bows again. “Your Highness. How might I serve you?”
“By doing what you do best.”
“As Your Highness commands.” Drysse bows a third time.
“You are to go to Candar, to Dellash. We are going to complete the work there that has been waiting for too long. For far too many ages and through too many insults to the greatness that is Hamor.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You sound doubtful, Marshal.” The Emperor's voice hardens.
“Your Majesty already has sent two
“Ser?”
“Let's go,” Dyrsse says. “It wouldn't do to keep the Emperor waiting.”
“No, ser. Lord Chyrsse said he was in a foul mood.”
“And he wants to see me?”
“Yes, ser.”
The two march through the gate, past the four soldiers in dress tans who bear dark-barreled rifles, and through the arched halls of pale marble, their boots clicking on the polished stone. The two military men walk past two servers in white who push carts redolent of spiced meats.
An Austran diplomat in dark woolens wipes his forehead as the two officers pass, and an official from the province of Merowey, in flowing white trousers and a peach-colored vest with gold braid, inclines his shaven head. Two functionaries in orange uniforms carrying brown leather cases nod deeply at the marshal and continue away from the receiving halls.
“Did Chyrsse say why?” the marshal finally asks as they approach the northern anteroom.
“No, ser.”
As they step through the archway hung with tan draperies, fringed in gold, a heavyset man in brilliant blue trousers and a matching blue silk shirt, and wearing a heavy gold chain and medallion around his neck, steps forward.
“Marshal Dyrsse, the Emperor is waiting for you.”
“I came as soon as I received the message, but, even with the new river steamers, it takes some time.”
“The Emperor understands that,” replies Chyrsse.
“The Emperor does not have to understand much, Chyrsse,” responds Dyrsse. “He just has to command.”
“You always understand... I'll tell him you're here.” After wiping his forehead with a large cotton handkerchief and blotting his damp cheeks, Lord Chyrsse hurries through a small doorway in the comer of the room.
The junior officer looks down at the polished octagonal floor tiles. Dyrsse scans the empty military anteroom, then shakes his head. He sets the marshal's cap on the polished stand by the large doorway next to the two silent guards, wearing swords, in the antique orange and black dress uniforms that date back to the founding of the Empire.
Lord Chyrsse reappears. “His Excellency is waiting!” The marshal steps toward the heavy wooden doors warded by the guards, who turn, silently, and open them.
Lord Chyrsse straightens his silks and steps through the double doors before Marshal Dyrsse. “Marshal Dyrsse, responding to His Excellency's commands!”
Dyrsse's lips barely quirk at the high-pitched squeaking announcement, and he steps into the receiving chamber, where he walks to the orange carpet, turns to the throne and bows deeply. He waits.
“You may depart, Lord Chyrsse.” The Emperor's voice is deep, surprisingly deep, coming as it does from a thin figure with short but thick salt - and - pepper hair and a narrow beaked nose. Stesten's eyes are a piercing light green.
Behind the marshal, Lord Chyrsse bows and walks back through the side doors, which close with a dull thud.
There are no guards visible in the hundred-cubit-long chamber, but the dozen embrasures in the overhead gallery, and the four in the wall that forms a semicircle around the throne, testify to their hidden presence.
“You may approach, Marshal Dyrsse.”
The slim bald man in the tan uniform walks forward until he reaches the foot of the five wide steps that lead up to the imperial throne where he bows again. “Your Highness. How might I serve you?”
“By doing what you do best.”
“As Your Highness commands.” Drysse bows a third time.
“You are to go to Candar, to Dellash. We are going to complete the work there that has been waiting for too long. For far too many ages and through too many insults to the greatness that is Hamor.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You sound doubtful, Marshal.” The Emperor's voice hardens.
“Your Majesty already has sent two
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